Harry Potter and the Rising Shadows
by Shining Quill
Summary: Lord Voldemort is defeated. The Wizarding World is entering a fragile state of peace. But mysterious events threaten the peace that so many have died for, heralding the rise of evil once more. As Harry will learn, Voldemort was only the beginning . . .
1. Prologue

Prologue 

_The story was not over. _

_Wizards across the countryside raised their goblets of wine and mead, and loudly toasted the name of the Boy Who Lived, in honor of the unbelievable event that had occurred. _

_He had done it._

_The unthinkable. _

_Harry Potter had defeated Lord Voldemort once and for all. _

_As word spread like fire throughout the hearts of wizards everywhere, realization hit like a stampede of mountain trolls. They were free at last from the tyranny of the legendary Dark Wizard. _

_To all, it seemed that Harry Potter and his friends had finally beaten the darkness into a mere shadow of its former power. _

_But the shadows are hungry. _

_They never rest. They are relentless. _

_For they know the truth – that with every dawn, with every sunrise – there must come a dusk, and soon afterwards, a night. A cold, dark night where light dwindles to mere specks. _

_The shadows are patient. Coiling, tensing, and plotting at the farthest reaches of the light. _

_Waiting. _

_For when that cold night does descend – and it will, despite all that Harry Potter has done and will do – the maw of darkness will sweep across the land, all of its awful power directed at extinguishing that everlasting flame, hope. _

_But until then . . . it can only watch. Observe. _

_Voldemort was only one tool to implement its schemes. One tool amongst many. _

_Harry Potter – and his friends – are in grave danger. _

_The balance of light and dark is about to tip once more in the never-ending war of good and evil. _

_The story is not over. _


	2. Chapter 1: THE WILL OF LORD VOLDEMORT

Chapter 1 

THE WILL OF LORD VOLDEMORT

"Come again?" asked a stunned Harry Potter.

The short, flustered wizard before him – who had only recently, hastily introduced himself as Willard Huckly – bowed for a second time, and repeated his message nervously:

"My apologies, Harry Potter, sir, but the Minister of Magic –

"Eh?"

"Or, rather, you know him as Kingsley Shacklebolt, former Auror –

"Oh, right." Harry had forgotten that only a month before, Kingsley had been named temporary Minister of Magic. So much had happened since that fateful night . . .

"Yes, well, the Minister of Magic requires you to be present at the Ministry of Magic this afternoon – along with Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger – to go over _his_ will." He sounded terrified as he emphasized the 'his'.

Dreading the answer, for Harry knew of only one being whose name could strike such fear into another, he asked, "Whose will?"

At these words, Harry triggered an alarming response from Huckly.

Willard Huckly seemed to stiffen, and his face began to turn a nasty shade of darkest blue; his fists clenched and unclenched, spasmodically; he began to huff in huge amounts of air. His rotund face shined with sweat, his moustache (triggering an unpleasant, but nonetheless nostalgic memory of a man named Vernon Dursley) the only visible hair on his entire face, quivering in its bushiness. The poor fellow looked like he was working up the courage to say the name. Finally, he did so in a flood of hot breath that smelled strongly of wine – evidence of the many feasts he had attended in the previous weeks celebrating Voldemort's final downfall.

"_Voldemort's_." His face relaxed and the dark blue dissipated – but only to leave behind a pasty shade of white, which was more alarming than the blue.

Harry's hand, by pure reflex, swiftly rose to his forehead to touch the familiar scar on his forehead, an ever present reminder of how much had been sacrificed to get him to where he was today. Cold sweat beaded on his suddenly clammy forehead; his heart pounded with the intensity of a thousand galloping centaurs.

Hoping that his face was not betraying the sudden sense of dread he was feeling, Harry forced some calm into his voice as he replied, "Tell the Minister I'll be there. Thanks, Huckly."

The wizard bowed – quivering slightly as he did – and then promptly straightened up and walked down into the sidewalk and Apparated. _Pop_!

Harry closed the door of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, and stood stock still, facing the ancient entrance; he was suddenly fascinated by every crack that was lined in its wooden face. He tried to deny what he was feeling – but his senses were alert and sharp as ever. It had happened.

It was not imagined.

His scar had – for the slightest second – pained him.

* * *

"Some tea perhaps, Master Harry?" Kreacher asked, his bull-frog voice polite as usual.

"Yes, thanks, Kreacher." Harry sank into a musty, yet comfortable chair, and rubbed his forehead irritably. Kreacher bowed extremely low, his long nose almost touching the wooden floor, and then turned to make his master some tea.

Harry tried to digest the information that had just been given to him.

Voldemort had a will.

_But why?_, a small, logical part of him argued. _Why would he make a will? He never expected to die! _

Maybe even Voldemort suspected that his time would come.

_He was next to immortal! _

And yet I defeated him.

_Only by destroying his Horcruxes. _

No small task, he reminded himself.

A creak next to his chair made Harry jump and plunge his hand into the pocket of his jeans for his wand.

But it was only Kreacher, who had returned with his tea. Thanking the house elf, Harry ordered Kreacher to take a break – otherwise he faced the wrath of Hermione Granger, who visited the house along with Ron frequently to check up on him. Last time she visited, she had innocently asked Kreacher if Harry had recently given him a break.

The resulting answer led to a nasty incident – that Harry Potter, the Boy Who Defeated Voldemort, was too embarrassed to recall – in which Harry was given a new scar, and Ron was given a scar of his own (he had tried to come to Harry's aid). Because the visits were randomized, Harry gave Kreacher a break at least twice a day, every day.

Ron and Hermione.

Harry finished his tea, went upstairs, and entered what passed for his new room. He took a seat at the decrepit writing desk, pulled out some parchment, ink, and a new quill and began to write to his two friends. They needed to know all that had transpired.

When he finished, he rolled up the letter, stood up and muttered, "Fawkes."

A flash of flame, and the scarlet plumage of the phoenix appeared on Harry's bed.

After the defeat of Lord Voldemort, Harry had tried to buy a new owl – but none could compare to the faithfulness and companionship of Hedwig. Dismayed he returned to Grimmauld Place, only to find Fawkes waiting for him. Apparently – after speaking with Dumbledore's portrait – the phoenix had recognized him as its new owner, and Harry was grateful. Fawkes wasn't Hedwig – nothing could replace that snowy owl – but Harry had, in the past, drawn great strength from it. That phoenix had saved his life before.

Fawkes stuck out a scarlet plumed leg.

"Take this to Ron and Hermione, will you?" The phoenix let out a great wavering note, acknowledging the request. Harry stroked Fawkes neck, to which the phoenix let out another note, signifying its gratitude, and then disappeared in a flash of light and flame.

Harry sighed and began to rummage around his room for his nicest robes.

An hour later, he set out to read the final wishes of Lord Voldemort.

* * *

Note from Author: Just an idea I came up with after reading Harry Potter 7 for the hundredth time. Read and review. See you all in Chapter 2: ILL WILL


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